DRESSED WITH BUNTING AND SIGNAL FLAGS, THE WARDROOM HAD BEEN transformed into the very den of patriotism. Dinner had been served early, as reveille had been early—the morning watch had passed in a state of vigorous industry, all hands scrubbing and polishing and putting things right enough for an admiral’s inspection. Second meal on the mess deck and in the wardroom was light—fried chicken, biscuits, and yellow potato salad. Supper was to be barbeque served out pierside. Overseen by Old Chick and Gustavo Gubbins, three whole hogs had been turning over a hickory fire since the end of the mid-watch.
In various stages of military splendor, the officers lounged around the wardroom. Those who knew about the Spanish sun were waiting until the last minute to venture on deck in their fine blue broadcloth coats.
“We can’t just pretend he doesn’t know what day it is,” Pybus said.
“No, we cannot,” Fancher agreed, looking a little overwhelmed. Fancher’s chair had been covered with the Don’t Tread on Me flag, garishly red, white, and rattlesnake. The decoration of the wardroom had been the final step in the complete dressing of the ship for the Glorious Fourth. “What are we to do? Keep him below hatches?”
Pybus considered that a fair enough idea, but the others thought it a barbarous way to treat a shipmate.
“What is normally done with Nolan on the Fourth of July?”
No one knew. Nolan had come aboard Enterprise in January, before the Fourth of July was even considered a remote possibility.
“Isn’t he supposed to be kept in the brig or something?” asked Easton, just aboard from Constitution. The old Enterprises stared at him. “I only asked,” he spluttered.
“He’s not supposed to hear or read anything about the United States,” Ruggles corrected him. Slouching in his chair, Darby folded a newspaper in front of his face: it was cut through, censored in a dozen places. “Well,” he said, “it would be a shame if Nolan were to hear of the United States now—seeing how Mister Curran has prevented him reading about it.”
Curran sat at the head of the table, opening a letter that had arrived on embassy letterhead. He read the note, smiling, oblivious to the swirling debate.
“He isn’t a prisoner, really,” said Fancher. “Well, I reckon he is, technically.”
“He can read a calendar,” Ruggles said.
Darby put the paper down. “A dilemma. Our prisoner now imprisons us.”
“He fought with us, gentlemen,” Curran said. “It would be a dishonor not to have him enjoy the afternoon with us.”
“But how can that be done?”
“I have an idea,” Ruggles smiled.
“Not again,” sneered Easton.
Ruggles gave his messmate a wintry glare and continued, “We put him into the longboat and row him around the harbor until the patriotic speeches are over.”
The suggestion was met with guffaws.
“What? Anyone have a better plan?” he huffed.
“Mister Ruggles, you have a fine idea,” Curran said.
“One of many,” Ruggles said, and he narrowed his eyes at Easton.
“We will have our Fourth of July, and so will Nolan,” Curran said. “He will be chaperoned.”
“How do you mean?” asked Darby.
“The captain will escort the ambassador and the Duke of Murcia from the hotel to the ship.” Curran looked at his watch. “They will arrive precisely at one forty-five.”
“The red carpet is laid,” Easton said. He was in charge of the side boys.
Curran went on. “The captain, the chargé, the duke, and the ambassador will travel in the first carriage. Nordhoff, Hall, and I will escort the ladies of the delegation.”
“Did you say ladies, sir?” Ruggles asked.
“I did, sir. In prodigious numbers.” Curran passed around the letter. “That grateful intelligence is confirmed on embassy letterhead. Ambassador Forsyth has six lovely daughters.” The entire wardroom, all of them unmarried, now listened closely.
“I suggest the following: before any overt display of patriotism, Mister Nolan will accompany me to the hotel. We will gather the fair ones, embark them in the carriages, and Nordhoff and Hall will deliver them to the ship.”
“You hope,” Darby sniffed. To the doctor, the thought of the two scamps actually completing an assignment seemed a remote possibility.
Curran answered, “Should duty fail to animate them, there is always the threat of flogging. To continue: Nordhoff and Hall will deliver the ladies in time for the opening ceremonies. I will gather two of the loveliest, and Nolan and I, accompanying them, will arrive conveniently late—say, just after the orators have left the quarterdeck.”
Glances were passed. It seemed an eminently plausible idea. “Once the barbeque and dancing are under way, one of us will stand with Nolan by turns to make sure he is not spoken to inappropriately by our guests. We all get the Fourth, we all get to convene with Bacchus, and Nolan is not excluded from the fun.”
Mister Easton lifted his glass. “To our exec! You are a hero, sir! By land and sea!”
NOLAN COULD VERY WELL READ A CALENDAR. DURING ALL THE YEARS OF HIS sentence it was usual for him to spend the Fourth of July under some sort of close custody, segregated from the crew. Hornet put him in irons; most ships treated him better (they could have hardly treated him worse), but during the celebration he was always, at the very least, confined to quarters, and very often put in the brig.
While his cabin was being repaired, Nolan had stayed aboard Yunis. This was in itself no punishment. He had the ship virtually to himself, and the great cabin on the xebec was a far more spacious and airy place than his cubby aboard Enterprise. No one specifically ordered that Nolan was to be confined aboard Yunis; Pelles gave no positive order to that effect, and no one else besides Curran ever communicated with him in matters regarding his custody. A sentry was put on Yunis’ gangway, and another stood on the pier; this was not without some mutual embarrassment. After the fights with Ar R’ad and Um Qasim, the vast majority of Enterprise’s crew felt Nolan was a shipmate, and was as entitled as anyone to celebrate the Republic’s birthday.
Though almost no one aboard knew exactly why Nolan was being punished, all hands understood what his custody entailed. There were still a few who thought a traitor deserved worse; one can always find patriots of the punishing stripe. Piggen remained adamant that Nolan was as evil as Burr, but there were few aboard anymore who would listen to his rants. During the engagement with Ar R’ad, Piggen had remained firm at a station far below the waterline. The men knew this, as they knew that the purser had quailed when Curran had bid him join Varney in the duel.
Nolan was esteemed by his shipmates; he had sweat and bled with them, and even the dullest hand realized that the political creatures who had persecuted Philip Nolan were not much inclined to do either—sweat or bleed. It did not sit well with the men before the mast that they not only defended these clever men in Washington, but now had to dish their punishment too. But sailors, perhaps better than any other men, know that life is not fair. Reluctantly, all hands aboard Enterprise upheld the conditions of his confinement, but it would be easier for them, and for Nolan, if they might not have to do it on the Fourth of July.
Nolan, as always, was keenly aware of the feelings of others. He knew it was uncomfortable for the men who were set to watch him, and he knew that his presence was especially a burden during the celebration of holidays. As the Glorious Fourth approached, he stayed almost exclusively aboard Yunis. As preparations went forward, and Enterprise was warped pierside, Nolan retired completely to the xebec’s great cabin and put himself out of the way of the patriotic bustle. There would be no safe place for him on deck or even aloft, and he did not wish to make a sailor or Marine ask him to do what he had sense enough to do on his own.
There was a knock on the cabin door. Nolan turned in his chair as Padeen entered. “Afternoon, sir. And Mister Curran’s compliments.”
“Yes, Padeen?”
“Are you ready, sir?” Before Nolan could ask what for, Padeen stepped aside. Into the cabin came Shakin’ George, the ship’s barber. The lanky Tennessean had been diverted from the barbeque pit.
“Just a trim, sir,” George said, “which is the exec’s orders.” In a gust of hickory smoke George wafted an apron over Nolan’s shoulders and set to work lathering and scraping. In a matter of minutes Nolan was shaved, patted dry, and powdered fragrantly. His queue was retied with a black silk ribbon, and done proper, as Shakin’ George, along with Captain Pelles, was one of the score of men aboard who still wore a tail. Padeen produced a clean, pressed shirt and a brilliantly starched collar. With tuts and clucks they got Nolan into the fresh shirt (his pants were passable) and handed him a long silk cravat.
“Is my leather stock not perfectly fine?” he asked.
“Sure it is, sir,” said Padeen. “But it’s a bit familiar after all these years.” Nolan had for twenty years worn a leather stock identical to the sort the Marines wore; it had gone gray with salt. Padeen and George, taking little regard of Nolan, tossed away his old one and wrapped the new silk cravat around his neck. In a moment it was tied competently, and Padeen tweaked out the tips of the collar. He stood back to look as George dumped the basin out of the stern windows.
“That is splendid,” Padeen said. “Now sir, if you’d be coming along, I’ll take you to Mister Curran.” Nolan started to say something, but George had his elbow. “This way ’yer honor,” he twanged. “Better step lively.” They led him onto Yunis’ deck, across the gangplank, and onto the deck of the frigate.
Nolan found the ship transformed. There was a large, white awning put up between foremast and main, and another over the quarterdeck. Signal flags in profusion were hung from the stays, and as Nolan looked up he saw topmen a hundred feet above the deck acrobatically stringing more between the caps. It was the ritual of dressing ship, and in all his years at sea Nolan had never seen it.
“Mister Nolan,” Curran said, “there you are.” Dressed in his best uniform and number one hat, Curran bounced down the quarterdeck ladder. Sailors and Marines, also in their best, were giving a last-minute sweep and swab to the deck that would soon become a dance floor. The mood was holiday. “Are you ready, Philip?”
“For what?” Nolan answered blankly.
“We have an extra duty. I think you will find it agreeable.”
Kanoa and his mates approached looking particularly dapper in red waistcoats with beribboned seams. “Here you are, sir,” Kanoa said. He held out a Prussian blue cutaway jacket. It had a high collar with red facings and gold lace. The buttons were brass, but they had been polished like the flintlocks on the carronades, smooth and glimmering, nearly white in the sun.
“What is this?” Nolan asked.
“Why, they are your duds, sir. Me and old Otho Newsome here made them up. We used your old coatee as a pattern. It’s to the letter, sir, as you can see.”
It was a nearly perfect copy of an artillery officer’s dress coat, less insignia. It was of the old design, the type worn before the last war, but neither Nolan nor the seamen had seen the new pattern uniforms. Some of them had never seen an American soldier in their lives. They had merely copied his old coat. Though Nolan always took pains with his appearance, the new garment made him aware at once how shabby he must have looked.
“Try it on, sir,” said Kanoa. “Let’s see ya.”
Stunned, Nolan put on the coat. He was speechless. In almost two decades it was the first new, purpose-made piece of clothing he had even touched. And now it was his, and it fit perfectly.
“There. Now you are a credit to the ship, sir,” Newsome said proudly. The jacket was a credit to his scissors, too.
“Handsome is as handsome does, Mister Nolan,” said Kanoa. “You look like, a what do you call it? A paramour.”
“Paragon,” Curran suggested.
“ Ono no ka ‘oi, sir,” Kanoa beamed.
“Like he said,” grinned Newsome.
Nordhoff and Hall handed over a round hat, freshly lacquered. “Here, sir. We did a little overhaul on your scraper.”
The hat was of the old Army pattern as well; it had a cockade but did not bear the eagle or crossed cannon. This was as close to martial glory as Philip Nolan was allowed to come. Not knowing what else to do, he put the hat on his head. Curran smiled, and a couple of the men started to clap. Soon the applause was general around the decks.
Nolan was touched and glad that he was not called upon to speak, for his throat had closed off. He made himself smile; it came easily once he started, and he gave the crew a stately bow. Nolan continued to grin, but his eyes were stinging. Curran guided him aft. The crew opened to let them pass, still clapping, some cheering and whooping. They went onto the quarterdeck and then past the sentry and into the great cabin.
Pelles was standing next to his desk, prepared to meet them. “Good afternoon, Mister Nolan.”
“Sir,” was all Nolan could say in return. Pelles and Curran both judged that he was very close to being overwhelmed, but the captain had yet another gift to bestow.
Pelles thought it best to make the presentation with as little bombast as possible. “I am not one for speeches, Mister Nolan,” he said. “I am a man who judges the actions of persons rather than their words. As I told you after our brush with Ar R’ad, I have every reason to be pleased with your conduct—or should I say your example aboard my ship. I am extremely pleased with your alacrity in bringing Yunis into port after Mister Curran’s wounding. It was an intrepid deed, and would have earned any other sailor in the Navy a medal, or another stripe. It is not in my power to grant you those tokens, and I am not yet able to give you what I wish for you most. But I do wish to show my personal gratitude to you, and to recognize your valor.”
Old Chick came forward carrying an oblong velvet bag. Pelles balanced it on the desk and flicked open the drawstrings with one finger. He took out an officer’s sword, of French manufacture, a beautiful object of silver, steel, and gilt.
“I captured this on the deck of Hecate during the Quasi-War off St. Barth. It was honorably won and is honorably given.” Pelles held it out with the belt and scabbard. “I would be honored, the ship would be honored, if you would wear it today as we celebrate, and keep it as a memento of our gratitude for your service and bravery.”
Nolan lowered his head and tears flowed down his face. Pelles stepped forward and with Curran’s help buckled on the belt, frog, and knot. Nolan had not worn a sword since his was taken from him in Richmond, the day he lost every other emblem of rank and nation. He was staggered, affected to the soul, as they all were, but Nolan brought himself about quickly, wiped his eyes, and said, “Thank you, Captain, I am very grateful.”
Pelles placed his hand in Nolan’s and shook it firmly. “I can think of no officer who has done more to deserve this honor,” Pelles said.
Nolan’s face shone. “Thank you, sir. I will ever try to be worthy of it.”
As THE CARRIAGE WENT UP THE CALLE REAL, THE TWO UNIFORMED MEN IN IT were an object of curiosity. The Spanish driver, aware that this was some sort of American holy day, had dressed himself in his best carnival livery, purple, green, and gold. Some passersby thought Nolan and Curran to be Vatican officials and either knelt or crossed themselves as the carriage passed.
“They are certainly mistaken as to who we are,” Nolan said.
“They are.” Curran smiled. “Isn’t it just the thing?”
At the Calosa Latour, a boy ran through the alley from the next block squeaking out that the Duke of Murcia was in a coach and four heading for the harbor. It was quickly put about that His Serene Highness Gonzalo was in the company of an American officer, a very grave, tall, one-armed man who (it was said) was some sort of republican high executioner. The boy spoke breathlessly to the driver, asking him if it were true that the Americans were going to hang a murderer aboard their ship.
The driver answered, “God knows what is in the hearts of heretics.”
This was taken, per force, as a confirmation. Curran overhead this chatter, as did Nolan, but neither remarked on it. By the time they arrived at the Hotel Rialto, the pavement outside was filling with people, carts, horses, and mules, all heading generally toward the harbor, a crowd as happy and jovial as any off to witness a bullfight. The ladies of the ambassadorial party were in the ballroom of the hotel, happily chatting and sampling sorbet. Captain Pelles, the duke, and Ambassador Forsyth had already departed, and Mister Nordhoff and Mister Hall were trying to charm and cajole the women into the waiting carriages. This without much success, for though their immaculate uniforms were the very emblems of authority, their voices had only just broken, and it is not very often that women will pay attention to little boys.
Like all parties, this gathering was resistant to relocation. Curran surveyed the task at hand: about fifty persons remained. Clinging with the women in the ballroom were a few of the secretaries of the legation, as well as some of the ducal entourage. The Spanish and Americans were stylishly, if severely, dressed. The duke’s men were beribboned, studded with stars, and were of a type. A few of each crowd seemed put out to have been left behind by the ducal departure. Those grandees and beaver hats who had their own transportation eventually heeded the midshipmen and started the journey for the ship. This left the dawdlers.
Where the midshipmen had failed, Curran succeeded by main force, announcing once and plainly that it was now time to depart, and that those not wishing to ride might find the ship by taking a right-hand turn, walking downhill, and looking for a tall black object with checks painted on its side. At Curran’s command were three carriages: a landau, a phaeton, and a large four-in-hand: enough seats to accommodate the ladies and the most pompous and obese of the men. The threat of walking spurred the torpid of both sexes toward the carriages. Curran was no stranger to diplomatic receptions and now made a few tactical introductions, thus restraining the more eager embassy types from taking ladies’ seats in the carriages. Curran presented Nolan to Mrs. Forsyth, who’d known Curran as a boy in the Levant. The ambassador’s wife was very pleased to make Nolan’s acquaintance. There were other necessary introductions. Curran presented Nolan to the acalde and his beautiful wife, several dons and doñas, and hidalgos both those who were rich and those who were merely proud.
Nolan began to find the experience overwhelming. He was still somewhat overcome by the ceremony aboard Enterprise, and for the first time in many years he was thrust into society. The flit of fans and the rustle of silk dresses distracted him. Curran presented Nolan to Ambassador Forsyth’s six daughters—Emily, Anna, Lisa, Laura, Makalah, and Marigot—whose names he somehow retained for the requisite ninety seconds. Nolan bowed to each of the ladies, somewhat unsteadily. Truth be told, he felt somewhat dizzy; it had been many, many years since he had spoken to a woman, and now he was surrounded by six of them. Nolan could not prevent himself from looking up at the ceiling, and this pose, as well as his swaying sailor’s posture, made several persons stare at him.
Curran made sure Hall continued to offer his arm and maintain a steady flow toward the front door and the carriages. As the crowd thinned, the vice consul, Mister Slonecker, introduced himself. He was a thin, pale, shrew-faced person, between Curran and Nolan in age. Slonecker wore a lippy, condescending smile, and to Curran he looked like the sort of gentleman who might live in an apartment full of cats.
“An honor, sir,” Curran said, shaking the diplomat’s cold, sagging hand. “May I present my particular friend, Mister Philip Nolan.”
The vice consul responded by holding two limp fingers an inch in front of his protruding belly, as ill-bred persons will do when an introduction does not interest them. Nolan looked briefly at the pudgy hand and returned a rigidly formal bow. “Good afternoon, sir,” Nolan said coolly.
Slonecker began to walk away, but then an odd look came to his face. He turned to look at Nolan, trying to place him. “You, sir. Don’t I know you?”
Nolan did not recognize the man’s flabby, unfriendly face, but he knew his expression well enough.
“You are the man who dueled with Colonel Bell, are you not?” Slonecker sneered.
“I believe I was the last to have had that pleasure,” Nolan said flatly. Nolan was out of sorts and found that he was suddenly vexed; but he was not without resource enough to give back every second of the secretary’s queer gaze with a steady, blank expression of disregard.
Curran was certainly aware of this silent bout of wills; he quickly turned around, selected the ambassador’s two prettiest daughters, and said to Slonecker, “Though it would be a pleasure to renew your acquaintance, sir, Mister Nolan and I have been ordered to convoy these ladies specially to the ship.”
“Really?” one of the ladies giggled. Perhaps she was Emily. Nolan took his cue and offered his arm to another, perhaps Marigot, and said, “I am honored, mademoiselle.” Nolan then bowed to Slonecker with a precisely dosed bit of insolence: “Good day to you, sir.”
They left the vice consul muttering, and Curran led the party from the ballroom into the lobby. Hall and Nordhoff had by then completed their sweep and hovered under the awning by the curb.
“Got them rounded up, sir,” Hall reported. “We are ready to get under way.”
Curran noticed that Hall and Nordhoff had managed to cut the ambassador’s two youngest daughters from the pack. By dint of careful stowage, the large coach had departed full, leaving the landau for the midshipmen and the phaeton for Curran, Nolan, and the sisters Emily and Marigot. It was a neat bit of maneuvering.
“We can go, sir?” asked Nordhoff.
“You may,” Curran assented. Hall and Nordhoff bounded into the landau and pulled the girls in after them. “Mister Nordhoff,” Curran said after them, “a direct course for the ship, if you please.”
Nordhoff looked crestfallen. Hall wore the dazed expression of a person who has had a plan unraveled by a mind reader. “How’s that, sir?”
“To the frigate, Mister Hall. Directly.”
“Aye, aye sir, right away,” Nordhoff said. The landau went off, the girls smiling and the midshipmen trying to look as though they always rode in coaches when on liberty.
Curran opened the carriage door. As he handed Emily up, Slonecker crossed the street and tried to wave down a hackney coach. The driver, an old and mellow Catholic, turned up his nose and hissed, “Hereje sucia!”
Slonecker was nearly made apoplectic. It did not help that at that moment Nordhoff chose to stand on the seat of the landau and flourish his handkerchief at the crowd.
Curran caught sight of both the boy and the seething diplomat. “Damn that little imp. I’ll have him kiss the gunner’s daughter.”
Across the street, Slonecker stared crossly at Nordhoff and then again at Nolan, who scrupulously ignored him. Marigot found her seat and Curran nodded to the driver, “Quisiéramos ir, señor.”
The carriage pulled away from the curb and into the sunshine.
When they had gone some distance from the hotel Marigot said, “Mister Slonecker could use the walk.”
“He is perfectly obnoxious,” clucked Emily. “Rude and pompous as Nero.”
“Perhaps he was indisposed,” said Nolan.
“Would it be possible, do you think, to press-gang Mister Slonecker?” asked Marigot.
“We do not resort to the press,” said Curran. “We are volunteers aboard Enterprise.”
“But could you not have some burly Marine merely knock him on the head to remind him of his manners?” asked Emily. She glanced at Nolan and thought to herself that he was not unattractive, and it occurred to Marigot that though the older gentleman seemed distracted she could not find fault with his manners.
“I so look forward to the firing of the cannon,” Marigot said.
“I hope the frigate’s guns will not disappoint,” Nolan replied. “They are as loud as any I have heard.”
“I am sure they will be thrilling, Mister Nolan,” Marigot said complaisantly. “It’s been a long time since I have enjoyed a really good bang!”
The midshipmen had been admonished to proceed directly to the ship, but their superiors were under no such constraints. Curran asked the coachman if they might pass by the Rambla de Benipita and then ascend to the battery at the Castillo de Galareas. The promontory there, more than three hundred feet above the harbor, would grant a splendid view of the bay. It was also a perfect way to get rid of the better part of two hours.
As the carriage passed out of the town and into the countryside, Nolan was able to compose himself. The sun was bright but not intolerably hot, and the road was shaded as it began a long series of hairpin turns up and toward the battery. Nolan was surprised at how anxious he now was. He had felt suffocated by the crowd, though he realized that there had been no real crush of people; Nolan had not really yet recovered from the gift of his jacket or the presentation of the sword. And now the presence of two pretty, sociable young women seemed to have made him stupid. To be so suddenly in an open carriage, so very much like a free man, so very much like a normal human being, was close to incomprehensible. Nolan was happy, but the greater part of his mind advised against it. He kept thinking, frighteningly, that all this might be a dream. Every now and then he placed his hand to the pommel of the sword and touched the buckle cinched about his waist.
The castle had a grand, sweeping view of much of Murcia. In the distance, sharp-ruled against the sky, could be seen the embarcadero, and beyond it Punta Caldiera and the bright blue sea. Below, palm trees fluttered on the hillside. When they arrived at the battery, Curran gave his compliments to the officer commanding, a Spanish ensign hardly older than Mister Hall. He was told, without even asking, that the Paloma battery would join the other guns of the harbor in returning Enterprise’s salute.
“Cuántos cañones, señor?” Curran asked. More than a hundred, came the answer—it would be a very grand sight. Nolan, who had been standing aside, came forward and exchanged compliments with the ensign and the grizzled sergeant major of the battery. They all seemed pleased to speak French, the language of artillery and fortification. Nolan remarked knowledgably on brattices and belvederes, chemins de ronde, chevaux de frise, and counterscarps until, from below in the harbor, came the low grumble of a signal gun. Aboard Enterprise, the Blue Peter went up at the main, a white rectangle within a blue one. The flag of recall was nearly lost in the profusion of the hundred others put out to dress the ship.
“That will be our signal, ladies,” Curran said.
Nolan gave his best compliments to the men of the battery (the cannoneers had been assembled for his inspection) and then very self-consciously returned their salutes. It had been an age since he had been rendered the honor.
The phaeton went down the steep gravel road, then onto the cobbles of the streets near the rambla. By the time they came to the quayside Curran could see that the ship’s complement was mustered on the spar deck. He checked his watch. They were on time almost to the minute.
As the carriage halted, the notes of a song came to them: a beautiful, bright operatic voice singing a capella. The tune was a slightly obscure one, “To Anacreon in Heaven”; it had gained popularity when the words were rewritten as “In Defense of Fort McHenry.” Since the last British war it had become a popular, if extraordinarily difficult to sing patriotic song. They were close enough for Curran to see that Captain Pelles, together with the dignitaries, was standing at the quarterdeck rail. A golden-haired, petite woman was singing. Her voice carried remarkably, flawlessly in tune, but she had varied the lyrics slightly. She had obviously memorized the words phonetically, a skill not unusual for divas, and the lyrics drifted to them only slightly distorted:
José doth el star spaniel banter and bay—
Before any could form a reproof, the beautiful, singular voice went back to the true libretto, finishing the last bars with a soaring cadenza:
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!
The ship erupted in applause, genuine and boisterous from the sailors and civilians before the masts, polite and admiring from those elevated on the quarterdeck. Pelles stepped forward, took the beautiful diva’s hand, and bowed to her. There was another wave of applause. Apparently the performance had been one of extremely gratifying quality.
Curran was relieved that Nolan had caught wind of nothing that he should not have. Captain Pelles had asked his friend Mademoiselle de Chaplet to sing for that exact reason. There was, of course, the pleasure of teaching the song to her (Pelles did love a soprano), but it was to be recommended for several other reasons. “My Country, ’Tis of Thee” was America’s unofficial anthem, but it was not always fitted to an occasion where the British might be encountered as its melody was cribbed shamelessly from “God Save the King.” “The Star Spangled Banner” was perfect for Enterprise’s celebration, and not only because Mademoiselle de Chaplet’s voice so well suited it. The song was unique in the patriotic line, for not once in its four sprawling verses did the lyrics contain the word “America,” or even mention the United States.
In the carriage, Curran said, “I think this is the time we should debark.”
As Nolan helped the ladies, Curran reminded the coachman to set his brakes. While a mid aboard Epevier he’d a previous experience with post horses and signal guns, and did not wish to repeat it in front of a frigate full of distinguished visitors. Perhaps the driver was tired, perhaps he was distracted by Miss Marigot’s décolletage, or he was simply beyond taking advice, but the coachman did not depress the lever. The results were nearly instantaneous.
When Enterprise fired the first cannon of the five comprising the vice consul’s salute, the old gelding in the traces seemed to levitate on four legs. Nolan had just handed Miss Emily down from the carriage when the second gun fired, and at that moment the horse put back its ears and bolted.
As a gust of cannon smoke jetted from the quarterdeck, the carriage jerked forward, the horse’s iron shoes threw sparks from the cobbles, and the entire contraption thundered at an alarming rate diagonally down the pier and toward the warehouses. The driver’s commands, curses, and eventually prayers were swallowed up by the continued thunder of the guns. As the carriage rattled off toward the town, powder smoke gushed across the harbor, brilliantly white and then pearl gray as it scattered. And in the space of a few seconds the coach was far, far out of sight.
“Well,” Curran said, brushing his hat and fixing it securely on his head, “shall we go aboard?”
MISTER SLONECKER, THAT VEXED SOUL, WAS NOT AT PIERSIDE TO WITNESS THE salute fired in his honor; he was not at the gangway either, and as the echoes boomed back after many seconds from the walls of the city, they reached him on his sweaty, angry walk down the Calle Real. Slonecker plucked his watch from his pocket and listened as Enterprise’s gun crews went directly into the next salute, fifteen for the ambassador and his party, and then nineteen more for the Duke of Murcia. Miffed, he continued downhill toward the harbor.
Nolan and Curran watched as the important people continued to come aboard and Enterprise’s guns were bowsed and made fast. From the several batteries around the harbor the salute was returned gun for gun, a grand, rolling syncopation. There were all of the hundred guns the Spanish ensign had promised, those and others from emplacements that were not obvious from the sea. It was all of six minutes before the redoubling echoes faded. When the last of the smoke lifted, the air was still, as though the wind had been stunned.
The decks under the awning were full of people. The sailors were delighted and expansive, and the civilians congratulated them. Mister Bent (another of the new midshipmen) came over to Curran carrying a leather tankard and a cut glass goblet from the wardroom. “A taste, sir,” he said. “You didn’t get a chance to approve the refreshments.” Bent handed the glass to Curran.
A sip: “It is delicious.”
Bent smiled. “Raspberry shrub. For the ladies.” Bent took a furtive look around and handed Curran the tankard. “Now, sir, try this,” he whispered.
Curran touched his lips to the rim and his head flinched involuntarily. “Woah.”
“Schwimmerhorn, the Dutchman, calls this one ‘Green Goddamn.’ ”
“A drink not to be underestimated.”
Curran handed the tankard to Nolan. He took a sip and grimaced. “Good God!”
Bent was delighted. “We’re having a contest, to see who can come up with a better name. One more genteel like, so the ladies will try it.”
“How about . . . ‘Liquid Concussion’?” Nolan asked.
“That sounds scholarly, sir.” Bent nodded, “Like it was medicinal. But we’ll be serving this belowdecks.” Bent took back the tankard and said confidentially, “And no open flames, just to be safe.”
It would be an unusual ship, as well as an unhappy one, that did not have its share of musicians aboard. Enterprise had among her four hundred-odd souls a share of fiddlers and tin whistle players. There were also drums, fifes and bugles, gut bucket basses, and a violin cello or two. Added to a few very gifted players were dozens of others who made up with enthusiasm what they wanted for technique, and they added triangles, bells, washboards, tambourines, and even Jew’s harps. Enterprise was able to put a creditable band on the forecastle, and though they were not up to Mozart, or even to accompanying Mademoiselle de Chaplet, they were to be counted on to deliver reels, jigs, and contra dances by the score. All hands were determined that Enterprise’s Fourth would be the finest that was ever known: no man o’war’s ball is ever done by half measures. After the speeches and salutes, the frigate’s musicians assembled with the alacrity of a boarding party.
Old Chick, a master of skillet and camboose, likewise the banjo box, bent forward and said, “Gen’elmans and ladies, ‘Money Musk,’ if you please!” The tune was followed by “The Virginny Reel,” “The Old Thirteen,” and “The Lakes of Pontchartrain.” And merriment was contagious.
A Fourth of July abroad will unfailingly attract American expatriates, and besides the young women who were the relations of the embassy there were also the daughters of several Baltimore merchants and dozens of señoras and señoritas willing to dance. The hands were unabashed, and fell in to teaching the ladies the figures. Mostly they were contra dances, and soon the decks were full of swirling skirts and gliding sailors.
Every celebration, large or small, has currents in it; some are obvious, some unseen. Friends meet, people are introduced, and new acquaintances come together. There is a general flow of persons, dancers and spectators, as well as the gradual, almost random circulation of groups coming together or going apart.
As in the ocean, the obvious currents have evident and predictable effects; these are usually benign. It is the unseen currents, like rip tides, that do peril to the unwary.
There was already a trace of tension. Ambassador Forsyth could not be called a sensitive or particularly astute man. He owed his appointment to political contributions rather than any ability with language or the diplomatic arts. The ambassador was a Democrat of the stripe of Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, meaning he was a slaveholding plantation owner, and he had alienated every Enterprise sailor in hearing when he asked Captain Pelles how much he would accept in gold to purchase Fante.
With a look that might have enlightened a less opaque man, Pelles informed the ambassador that Fante was rated able, a free man, and not a piece of property. Thereafter, Pelles tried to remain out of the ambassador’s way. This was noticed. The captain was the host, and by and by the ambassador had occasion to remark that he found it rather vulgar that Captain Pelles was cavorting with an opera singer. This little tidbit also made its way around the party, ricocheting through the quarterdeck where the diplomats and the grandees congregated.
Eventually Mister Slonecker completed his perishing journey from the hotel and clomped sweating over the gangway. He was in a lather and quickly buttonholed Ambassador Forsyth. The ambassador was further ruffled by the news Slonecker brought from the consulate: a newspaper clipping from a filed copy of the Richmond Virginia Gazette dated September 8, 1807. In it was a short piece about Nolan’s trial and a picturesque bit of prose about his “traitor’s” march from the city gaol to the armed galley that rowed him down to Norfolk. Slonecker triumphantly thrust the paper under the ambassador’s nose and pointed Nolan out on deck.
Nolan, of course, was unaware of any of these machinations. Self-conscious in his new uniform, he could not help but feel generally that he was a special object of attention. Congratulated by various crewmembers and introduced to an increasing number of strange faces, Nolan felt increasingly that he was a specimen on display. He did realize that he was being spelled by different officers; this he knew to be necessary, but it is awkward for a forty-year-old man to be chaperoned, no matter how well meaning are his guardians. Nolan did his best to be polite, but there was around him an unavoidable diminishment of levity. Though well regarded, even cherished by his shipmates, no one wanted to be the person who slipped up, and as the punch began to take hold Nolan found that his presence tended to induce a certain staring silence in the sailors who were around him.
The party continued until it reached its predictable culmination. There are several versions of what, exactly, transpired on the quarterdeck between Captain Pelles and the ambassador—all of them to the greater credit of Enterprise and her captain. Ambassador Forsyth had been a member of the Virginia bar and clerked for Justice Marshall during Aaron Burr’s trial. Having failed to bring the traitor to justice, Forsyth had taken a sharp and malignant interest in the secondary cases. He had rejoiced at Nolan’s conviction and had ever after smugly pronounced that the cruel sentence was just. When Slonecker presented the ambassador with the newspaper and informed him that the infamous person was here in attendance, Forsyth was incensed. That Philip Nolan was wearing a sword and was dressed in a semblance of a uniform—well, that was beyond the pale. Ambassador Forsyth spoke to Captain Pelles only after he had made known to several persons, including the duke, what he thought about Nolan, traitors in general, and the manner in which he inferred that Enterprise was commanded. When the ambassador confronted Captain Pelles, demanding that Nolan be “disarmed and stripped of his uniform,” he received a very undiplomatic response.
Word of the contretemps eventually found Curran, and complicated his life immediately. In any other situation, the disagreeing parties could merely separate. The ambassador was escorting the Duke of Murcia, who was, with his several dozen valuable friends, waiting for the fireworks. The duke was an important person, not far removed from the Spanish throne; it was of the first importance to impress him. Ambassador Forsyth realized that regardless of Captain Pelles’ temerity, he would have to wait until he could decently storm off the ship. The timing of his tantrum (and he was determined to pitch a fit) was complicated by the fact that the Duke of Murcia had once also commanded a frigate. The duke, too, had fought the British and French, and it was with redoubling frustration that the ambassador realized that His Serene Ducal Highness had taken a very personal and pronounced liking to both the insolent Captain Pelles and the singing trollop Mademoiselle de Chaplet. The ambassador watched with his jaws clamped shut as Pelles and the duke spoke and laughed and drank, growing ever more frank, friendly, and familiar.
The band played, Mister Slonecker’s betrayal became well known, and every sailor aboard Enterprise took to staring long and narrowly at the ambassador and his busybody minion. The punch was strong, the day had been hot, and a brawl was certainly not out of the question. Curran spoke to Old Chick, who did his best to keep the dancers engaged. Quadrilles were being played, and as those dances go, one couple does the figures while the others watch and then join in turn. There were dancers arrayed in squares about the decks.
By this time, Nolan was standing alone by the carronades in Bastard’s Alley, watching and smiling. The lanterns in the awnings put a golden light on the dancers, a glow that made even the present into a sort of living nostalgia. And out of this pleasantness, very suddenly, Philip Nolan was struck by a bolt of heartache.
He recognized Lorina Rutledge immediately. As Nolan watched from across the deck, Lorina turned to speak to a woman next to her, a pink, willowy creature with gray eyes and reddish hair. Both were dressed in the manner of La Belle Assemblée. The men standing around Lorina included a Spanish grandee and a French officer, profusely embroidered. Behind her lurked a civilian dressed in a black cutaway and tight pantaloons, a man who looked like a dancing master.
Lorina was talking to one of the duke’s men, a sad-faced noble who wore the Order of the Knights of Malta. Nolan watched as Lorina flirted her ostrich plume fan and tittered at something the duke’s man said. It was a contrived, fawning laugh, so artfully rendered that no one who had not known her well could ever think that she was not entirely sincere. This small falsity struck Nolan first among many other perplexing impressions. He had remembered and cherished Lorina’s simple, graceful movements and her bright, interested smile. Now she was unsteady on her feet and seemed to lean upon the men and even the women who came close to her. When she spoke, her gestures seemed outré and exaggerated. Between bouts of laughter she wore a careless, distracted expression, a bemused and haughty smirk. This disaffection was so totally alien to the woman he had known that Nolan thought he must be mistaken; it could not be Lorina after all. But the delicate line of her shoulders was unmistakable. Her long, white gloves clapped along with the music. Her expression and her movements confirmed the charms Nolan had treasured so many years before.
On the improvised bandstand, Old Chick smiled brightly and tapped at his banjo. “Gen’elmens and ladies,” he said happily, “now if you might form a quadrille for ‘Biloxi Bay’!” Click, click, click went Chick’s nails upon the box. Then the fiddles squeaked and the fifes played the happy tune. The band sawed into the music, Chick in front, rocking back and forth as he rumbled the banjo. Nolan wondered how so much happiness could surround his sudden and astonished misery. But a moment before he had been as happy as he had ever been in two decades—now he felt wretched and broken.
How did he dare to judge Lorina when he had so despised those who had judged him? Self-reproach was now added to his despair. Nolan turned, intending to go below, but Lorina saw him. She stopped talking and peered at him across the swirling dancers. Their eyes met. Nolan thought to bow, or at least to nod to her, but either his determination or his Stoicism failed him. Between them, the deck was full of moving, laughing, singing people—Nolan deliberately went into the crowd and headed aft. He made his way down the larboard side, and behind him the dancers moved together and apart, up and down. Nolan walked aft to the quarterdeck break with his fists clenched. He was almost to the gangway of Yunis and the safety of his cabin when he heard someone call behind him.
“Can that be you, Philip?”
The voice was precisely as he had remembered it, every note and tone exact. He turned to see Lorina standing just forward of the companionway, her head tipped slightly to one side. “I wonder if you have forgotten me?”
“I do remember, Miss Rutledge.”
“Only I am Miss Rutledge no longer, but Mrs. Graff.” She gestured with her fan. “That is my husband there with the alcalde.”
A moment passed; for them both the music seemed suddenly to have stopped, and the dancers too. Nolan felt his mouth go dry; the silence between them seemed to strangle his thoughts.
“The most remarkable coincidence,” Lorina said. “It is just the most extraordinary thing to see you. I heard the ambassador making some sort of fuss, I won’t bore you with it, prisoners at large, traitors even, but I had the oddest thought that he could only have been talking about you. And here you are.”
“May I ask to whom you were married?”
“Oh, it is no one you knew, Philip, a physician. He has a practice in Europe. A phrenologist. He is standing just there with the Marqués de Algaba.”
Across the deck, Nolan at once picked out the eminent Doctor Graff: a cadaverous, stoop-shouldered man in a suit of dove gray silk. About Nolan’s age, Graff looked older and debauched, a man wafted over by Morpheus.
“We live a gypsy life, and he treats famous heads. Isn’t that droll?”
Her face, her figure, her movements, and her voice, all of these Nolan recognized; but Lorina’s manner had changed so completely as to make her seem a different person. Her smiling kindness had quite vanished, and seemed to have been replaced by a meager and pitiless curiosity. She glanced at his coat, the plain buttons and the curious French sword. “Tell me, are you a soldier again?”
“I am not.”
“You are a prisoner, still? I am surprised.” She looked out at the party. “Your confinement seems very genteel. They don’t treat you too badly, I declare. I don’t suppose it would do to ask if you need money?”
His cheeks burning, Nolan shook his head. “My needs are met,” he said. Nolan felt crushed and empty, riven by the insurmountable distance between past and present. “Why did I never hear from you?” he blurted out. “After the trial, why did you not write to me?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh. Did you not receive letters? Really? I did send some—and heartsick ones they were too. Of course, when I never heard from you, I concluded that it was you who did not wish to correspond.” She paused. “After all, I thought you never wanted to hear of home again.”
A Marine, Corporal Tappert, had caught sight of them speaking together; though mindful of his duty, he had the decency to remain just out of earshot.
Later, Nolan was quite astonished at himself, but he asked quietly: “What of the paper I gave to you?”
Lorina looked blankly at him.
“The note. In the courtroom—before I was sentenced.”
“The paper you put into my hand?” Her face darkened at the thought.
“Did you not read it?”
“I did not. It fell from my hand during the riot. We were set upon by Jacobins. It was all so dreadful. Had Wendell not been there we might certainly have come to . . . I was so shocked and I still am. I have tried very much to put it all out of mind.” Her green eyes searched his face. She said, “What did it say?”
“It said that I would go away with you.”
Nolan noticed a minute stiffening of her mouth. “I was foolish to have ever made the offer, Philip. It was all quite impossible. And childish. There is no place you could have run; and if you had, I would certainly come to hate you.”
Around them, fiddles went on and there was laughter wrapped around the music. Nolan was silent, and after a long interval he heard Lorina say sharply: “Really, Philip, it is ungentlemanly to stand there and simply gape. Why don’t you ask how I have been?”
Nolan took a breath and bowed. “Mrs. Graff, it was polite of you to notice me,” he said. Lorina blinked at the Marine standing close by, at first uncomprehending. She then realized that Nolan was, in fact, under guard and made a slight shake of her head. “Now, I wonder if you would please excuse me, it is late, and I am required to retire,” Nolan said. He bowed again and moved for the gangway.
Lorina called after him: “You needn’t be so righteous, Philip.”
Nolan stopped and turned.
“It’s you that has hurt me. Not the other way around. Your pride and insolence have separated you from all decent society. You have never made any effort to make amends or to apologize, to your country or your friends, and it should not surprise you that you are still held in contempt by those who have not chosen to forget you. Pride led you to grief—and it was your friends that suffered too. Wendell and Alden were much maligned, and now he is dead, given up his life for the country you casually damned, and Alden a widow. My own reputation and prospects were so sullied that I had no choice but to consent to the proposal of a laudanum-addled quack. You have hurt many more people than yourself.”
At that moment a veteran officer of le Grand Armée joined Lorina and asked her to dance. She curtseyed, declined, and said in measured Parisian that she had an amusing person for the colonel to meet, a singular gentleman, but when she turned around, Nolan was gone.
The first rocket roared up from Enterprise’s quarterdeck and burst into a red ball of light. It was followed by another star shell, a blue one, and then by the lurching white of a flare. The lights pitched shadows across Yunis’ deck. It had been years since Nolan had been gripped by bitterness and resentment; their jaws closed around him now, and he felt tears stinging his eyes. He had vowed never again to give another person the power to hurt him; that resolution had melted away like a dusting of snow. He had commanded himself so long and with such masterful dignity that his failure made him almost physically sick. Harried, provoked, and as desolate as he had ever been in his life, Nolan stepped down the gangplank and onto the high, slanted afterdeck of Yunis.
The silence of the smaller ship was a relief; it was dark and low and shadowed. He did not head aft, for the cabin, but forward, down the ladder at the quarterdeck break and then along the outboard side in the splintered light below the masts and rigging. The decks had been cleared, more or less, the yards and booms rigged, and the hatch covers replaced, but it would have required a powerful eye, and a practiced one, to detect Nolan’s dark shape moving across the forecastle and out onto the forepeak. More rockets went off above the ship, and the crowds on the frigate’s deck and the other people around the town looked into the sky. No one saw Nolan move out onto Yunis’ bowsprit, crawl out to the very end of it, and lower himself down onto the quay.
Nolan did not think about the next step, or the next, or what it meant, but he started to walk quickly, and then he started to run. Trotting down the darkened pier, Nolan felt himself to be more alone than he had ever felt in his life—what shuddered inside him was the distilled miasma of two decades in confinement, the desolated aguish of a man not only without a country but now, apparently, even without a history. There were dozens, hundreds of people about, but no one paid him any mind. All of them were looking out over the harbor at the jets and cascade of rockets. As the fireworks transformed the sky, few realized that a prisoner had just turned himself into a fugitive.
Nolan jumped down onto one of the low docks. He lifted a line from a cleat and pulled the bow of a fishing boat toward the pier until it thumped against the piling. The little craft was a scabrous, desperate-looking thing; it was weathered and its stretchers were cracked, but it seemed all that he needed. He had to flee.
Coiling the painter in his hand, Nolan’s fist clamped onto the thwart and pulled the boat beside the pier.
“Where away, Philip?”
Nolan turned. Curran stepped out into the moonlight, his hand wrapped around a pistol, the lock drawn back.
“Would you stop me?”
Curran sat on a piling and balanced the weapon on his knee. “I’m not sure I have to. It takes more than one man to row a longboat.” Behind him, a rocket went into the sky and came down, a shower of yellow sparks. “Which probably don’t signify, for I doubt one man would be able to sheet and steer, as the wind is straight upon the harbor.”
“I would do all right,” Nolan choked. “I could not do worse than to stay here.”
Curran considered the distance between them; less than a dozen feet. He would not be likely to miss if he fired. “Where would you go?”
Nolan’s voice was tight. “Anywhere.”
“I doubt you would even make it to the Gut. The glass is falling. There is likely to be a sirocco, and there would certainly be galleys about. It would be safer to head west, across to Italy. But then, of course, the corsairs might take you, and make a slave of you.”
“You mock me, sir.”
“You step into that boat, Philip and you will be jumping from the end of the Earth.”
Nolan stared out the mouth of the harbor to the moon-spilled sea beyond. He seemed willing to chance it, to chance everything.
Curran continued: “You have no water, and in a day the sun would beat your brains out. If the sun does not kill you the corsairs will. And even should you live, Pelles would come after you. He would hunt you and never stop.”
Easton ran onto the wharf. He saw Curran, saw the pistol, and saw Nolan pulling the boat closer. He stopped instantly and drew his dress sword from its scabbard.
“Don’t throw your life away, Philip,” Curran said.
“Life?” Nolan scoffed. “I have no life. It would be better to be eaten by rats than to live as I do. What does it matter if I am dead?”
“You are still undefeated. Do not surrender to despair.”
Nolan swallowed back frustration and rage. “I cannot stand it any more. I will not. If you must stop me, then . . . ”
Nolan turned toward the boat, and Curran’s hand lifted the pistol. “Don’t,” he said, and there was a noise behind them: shouts and hurried footsteps. With a thump and rattle a pair of Marines jumped onto the pier. “Sir!” one yelled. “Mister Curran! Look! Look out there in the harbor!”
The Marine’s hand waved past Nolan, past the feluccas in the anchorage toward a pair of salt-yellowed sails. A squalid-looking craft came out of the darkness, rode over one of the mooring buoys, and came on toward the quay. It was heeled awkwardly in the wind; its sails were tied off, and it steered wildly. The boat was coming on much, much too fast. Kanoa thumped down onto the pier—in his hand was a rammer from one of the guns. All could see it was a cutter, blue over white, a ship’s boat. They could see no one in it, but it was being jibed right and left, the boom cracking against the mast, and it was sure to collide head-on with the pier.
“Lend a hand!” Curran barked. Curran and Kanoa used the rammer to try to fend off the boat, but it slammed into the fishing boat, stoving in part of its bow. It banged off in a crackle of splinters and drove up onto the wharf between Curran and Nolan. The boat’s foremast snapped by the boards, dumping a heavy chunk of the mast and the boom onto the pier.
Kanoa managed to jump into the boat, kick the tiller over, and unsheet the remaining sails. Into the fluttering noise he called out, “Here’s a man! No, a body. And another!”
“Bring me light!” Curran called.
A lantern came down. More Marines and a few crewmen spilled onto the pier. Curran took the lantern and jumped aboard. He crawled over the fallen mast and the tangled rigging. He could see a body curled around the tiller. It was still.
Easton reached out and managed to pull the stern of the whaleboat alongside the pier. Nolan found a line and made it fast. There was another shadow crouched inside the boat, thin and ragged. Nolan could hear a wheezing noise, a rasping sound, and he could smell something putrid.
“Help me,” someone mumbled. “In the name of God.”
Curran lifted the lantern overhead. The light came down on a lurid, hideous face. A pair of hollow cheeks were powdered with sea salt, and the eyes above them ringed with crusted blood—a man’s face, made into a monster. His eyelids had been cut off, as had the end of his nose. The corners of his mouth had been sliced back almost as far as his back teeth, a festering, twitching wound.
The tongue rasped again, “Help me.”
Someone behind Nolan said quietly, “Christ almighty.”
The death’s head spoke: “I am a United States naval officer. From the brig sloop Torch.”
Curran took the man into his arms. “Get Doctor Darby, at once!”
Nolan came over the thwart and joined Curran in the stern of the boat. He helped pull the man out and lay him on the pier. Bundled in rags, the man’s skin was covered with ulcerous wounds.
“The plague,” a Marine gasped, staggering backward.
Nolan held up the lantern as Curran looked into the man’s maimed, blackened, lopsided face. “No. Not the plague. Pirates did this,” Curran said. “Pirates.”